


Tell Me A Story

by hawksonfire



Series: Marvel Bingo 2019 [3]
Category: Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Awesome Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Deaf Clint Barton, Hurt Bucky Barnes, M/M, POV Clint Barton, Phil Coulson lives, Romantic Soulmates, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, Writing on Skin, background steve/sam if you squint, purple marker, steve is a lil obsessed, what you write on your skin appears on your soulmates skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 18:49:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18816886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawksonfire/pseuds/hawksonfire
Summary: Clint doesn't have a soulmate. At least, that's what he thinks. He's written on his skin for all of his life, and he's never gotten a response. Until now, anyway. But the response is not what he imagined.





	Tell Me A Story

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Marvel Bingo Square B3 - Soulmates.

**Clint**

Clint was really fucking surprised when he woke up one morning and there was writing on his arm. Not because the writing was not in English, but because it was there at all. Clint had been writing on his arms and legs and torso for pretty much as long as he could remember, and he’d never gotten a response.

Granted, he’d stopped trying as hard in recent years. Forty years of not getting a response were pretty much guaranteed to stop someone from hoping. Clint held out as long as he could, but eventually, he couldn’t fool himself anymore. For all his writing, for all his shitty jokes and compliments - and on his really bad days, all his begging - Clint had never received a response.

So he figured he was just one of the .001% of the world population who didn’t have a soulmate. It was no big deal, really. Clint was happy with his family, both blood and found. Laura and the kids were the best things that had happened to him since Barney ended up in prison, and Clint loved being an uncle.

And besides. He had Natasha, and he had Phil, and he had Steve and Tony and Bruce and Thor (when he was on-world). Not to mention Kate, and Lucky, and Simone and her kids.

So, really. Clint was happy. And if sometimes he found himself holding a marker to his skin and not actually writing anything, well. That was no one’s business but his own.

Clint had stopped hoping completely by the time that he moved into the Tower. After New York, and after Loki ( _bluecoldcalmblue_ **pain** ) took him and nearly killed Phil, Clint figured that it was probably for the best that he didn’t have a soulmate. The poor shmuck that would’a gotten stuck with him is better off anyhow.

After Ultron took Nat and Clint nearly went berserk getting her back, he was doubly - triply, even - certain that whoever would have been stuck with him as a soulmate was much better off without him. Who wants a guy who can turn his emotions on and off like a tap, who can kill another person with pretty much any random thing laying about - and who can _smile_ through it.

So, Clint didn’t write on himself, and he didn’t think about writing on himself, and he didn’t even check himself over in the morning to see if there were any new words on his skin. He kept most of his skin covered, and just prayed that he wouldn’t wake up one day and have a dick on his face. Well, a drawn one anyway. He was perfectly happy to wake up with a real live, flesh and blood cock in his face, especially if _his_ flesh and blood cock was in someone else’s face.

Regardless of cocks, faces, their locations, and whether or not one is in/on the other, waking up to words on his arm was not something Clint had ever expected. So, he thinks his response is perfectly justified. “What in the fucking fuck is that and why in the fucking fuck is it on my skin?” He yells.

He can’t hear himself, but by the way Natasha jumps out of his bed and nearly shoots him in the head (where the _fuck_ did that gun come from, anyway), he thinks he was pretty loud. She looks at him blankly - which is way more terrifying than it has any right to be - and he just shoves his arm at her. She reads the words and raises an eyebrow at him. He waves his arm around emphatically.

[WORDS, NATASHA.] Clint signs. [WORDS. ON MY ARM.]

She says something and when he doesn’t answer, she walks away. Clint stares at his arm again. Natasha’s hand enters his field of vision holding his aids, and he puts them in absently. “If you ever wake me up like that again, I will gut you, feed you your own entrails, and yank them out through your ass.”

“Love you too,” Clint says absently. “Why the fuck - what the fuck - _fuck_.”

“Yes, you mentioned that,” she says dryly. She takes his arm in her hands and turns it, reading the words silently. “Any ideas?”

“Not a one,” Clint says, unable to tear his eyes away. “I’m just glad I speak Russian - although I think that last bit is in German.”

“I just want the - _chair_?” Natasha reads out, voice lifting in confusion.

“What the fuck is the chair, and why does this person want it?” Clint says. He brings his arms closer to his eyes, squinting at the words. The writing is shaky, almost like a kid’s writing, and even in Russian, it’s barely legible. It’s like the person on the other end is either really, really young and just learning how to write (god, Clint fucking _hopes_ not) or - Or. Or what? What’s the other option?

“Don’t know,” Natasha says quietly, “I could do some digging.”

“While I have no doubt you would be able to find a person anywhere on the planet with just the first letter of their middle name, I’d rather do this on my own,” Clint says. At Natasha’s look, he amends, “At least at first. I’ll ask for your help if I need it, alright?” She nods and climbs back into bed, seemingly asleep in moments.

Clint does not do that. Instead, he stares at his arm for a little longer. Eventually, he gets the super-smart idea to write back. So he runs around his apartment, probably making a lot of noise if the pillow that hits the back of his head is any indication, searching for a marker. He eventually finds one (it’s bright purple, because of course it is) and he writes - What does he write.

What the _fuck_ does Clint write. What do you write to your soulmate who you didn’t know existed until ten minutes ago, and who apparently just wants ‘the chair’, whatever _that_ is. Clint thinks he’s going to go with something that’s tried and true, something that never fails to get a conversation started.

**Hi** _._

Yep. Clint goes with hi. He writes it on his left arm because he’s right-handed (for most things, anyway) and then he stares at his arms for half an hour. And then he goes into the washroom, strips down, and spends the next hour meticulously checking every inch of his skin to see if his soulmate wrote back. There’s nothing.

Maybe his soulmate can’t read? But they can write, and generally, those two things are taught at the same time.

Maybe they can’t speak English? They did write in Russian and German, after all. Clint scribbles ‘hi’ in both Russian and German onto his arm, just below the one in English, and then he waits. He waits for another half hour, and still, nothing appears.

“Still waiting?” Clint looks up to see Natasha watching him, unamused, and he belatedly realizes that he’s naked on his bathroom floor.

“I tried in all three languages,” Clint says, “Nothing.”

“Well, maybe they’re just - Clint.” Her voice sharpens and Clint looks down to see more writing appear on his right arm, slowly but surely.

“I didn’t know memories could hurt this much,” Clint says, translating from the Russian they’ve appeared in again. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“I still don’t know,” Natasha says. She crouches down beside him and examines the writing again. “You’re sure you don’t want my help?”

Clint shakes his head. “Not right now. I promise, I’ll ask if I need it.” He writes ‘are you okay?’ on his left arm, adding a small frowny face as an afterthought.

“You’d better,” Natasha threatens fondly. She ruffles his hair and leaves the bathroom, the sound of his front door closing echoing through the apartment after a moment. Clint spends the rest of the day writing on his arm.

He has to stop eventually, just because his entire arm is covered in purple ink and if he writes any more, they won’t be able to read the individual words. And he can’t just wash it off. Then they won’t be able to read _any_ of his words.

Clint is hungry. All this writing really tires a man out. He pulls on a hoodie and sweatpants and leaves his apartment, heading to the communal kitchen. He gets there to find Tony, Bruce and Nat squished around the small table that’s missing a leg. They’re all glaring at Steve, who has taken the liberty of spreading all of the files from the SHIELDRA file dump that concern the Winter Soldier across the massive island that Tony built.

“Damn, Cap, you gotta lotta paper there,” Clint says, whistling through his teeth. “You ever think of going paperless?”

“Not in the mood, Clint,” Steve says. He doesn’t even raise his head to look at Clint - which, honestly, is kind of disappointing. Clint needs that Look of Disappointment at least once a day.

“That’s fine, Cap, but you’re kind of blocking the table that I eat at. And I’m hungry. Remember the last time I was hungry?” Clint raises an eyebrow at Steve.

“Doesn’t matter, eat at the other table.” Steve flips a page over and keeps reading, obviously dismissing Clint.

Clint raises his other eyebrow in disbelief. Looks like this is going to make Clint get _creative_. He grins. Creative is fine. Creative is fun. He starts whistling, starting off quietly and slowly raising his pitch. As he raises it, he wanders around the kitchen. He pulls PopTarts out of the cupboard and a _particularly_ shrill note escapes his mouth.

“Enough!” Steve shouts, standing.

“This is a communal space, Steven,” Clint says, grinning, “You don’t wanna hear me whistle? Leave.” He resumes whistling, paying no attention to Steve as he gathers up his papers and storms out, grumbling to himself. “Island’s free,” Clint comments. Tony, Nat and Bruce sigh in relief and spread around the island.

“That was ballsy,” Tony says.

Clint shrugs. “Not really. As antsy as Steve is, he needs an outlet. He won’t hit you or Bruce, and Nat would just wind him up because he can’t read her yet, so that leaves me and Thor. And Thor’s off-world.”

“Still,” Bruce murmurs, “Risky. He could have hit you.”

Clint scoffs. He grabs his PopTarts and drops them on a plate, hissing at the heat. “Ouch, hot! Not even if he tried, Bruce.” He grabs his food and heads back to his room, leaving a trail of crumbs behind him. He’ll clean those up later. Probably. Hopefully.

He gets back to his room and immediately pulls off his hoodie, scanning his torso for new words. Nothing. Clint’s heart is only breaking a little.

After all this time - his whole _life_ \- of thinking that he doesn’t have a soulmate, he finally finds out that he has someone out there for him, and they don’t respond to his efforts. At this point, Clint’s hoping whoever it is can’t read.

Even as he stares at himself in the mirror, new words appear on his stomach - upside down, but Clint’s flexible.

_the blond man on the bridge. i knew him. I know him. I knew him i knew him i knew him i knew him i knew him i kne_

These are in English, surprisingly enough. Clint is starting to get a very bad feeling in his stomach. He switches the marker to his left hand and _carefully_ , ever so carefully, writes, ‘ **are you okay**?’ along his forearm.

And it shouldn’t be possible - it _isn’t_ possible - but Clint _feels_ the gut-wrenching terror that isn’t his slam into his stomach and he chokes, dropping the marker and scrambling into a corner, back to the wall and hands raised to defend himself. His heart pounds in his chest and his blood roars in his ears and it takes him a minute to see anything other than blue and then - nothing. His heart calms, his blood stops racing, and it’s like he never felt something he wasn’t feeling at all.

_why do you care_

Clint stares at the writing that appears on his arm in black, covering up some of the purple. He just - Stares. It’s the first time he’s gotten a response. Ever. In his life. How does he - what is he supposed - Clint’s brain just turns off. It stops working.

He comes back to himself about an hour later, still crouched in the corner. He blinks. And then he scrambles for the marker. The cap goes flying, probably never to be seen again.

**because you deserve to be cared for**

Clint recognizes the desperation he can practically _taste_ in those words. He knows exactly what causes it, and the last time Clint was this mad, he was in Budapest.

He doesn’t talk about Budapest.

There’s no response, despite Clint staring at his arm so hard he practically burns holes in it, so he pulls himself out of the corner and sits on his bed. He pulls the covers over his head and closes his eyes, breathing steadily. His mind slows, his heartbeat calms (again), and before Clint knows what’s happened, he’s breathed himself to sleep.

~~~~~~

Two weeks later, Clint’s soulmate reaches out to him for the first time.

_tell me a story_

So Clint does. Clint tells him the story about a pair of brothers who ran away to join the circus, learning how to shoot a bow and throw knives and swallow swords. He tells the story about how the brothers joined a group of people who told them that what they were doing was good. He tells the story about how the younger brother ended up running away with an arrow sticking out of his shoulder, and how the older brother just put away his bow and went back to the circus.

_the older brother sounds like a pain in the ass_

Clint laughs.

~~~~~~

A month after that, Steve comes back to the Tower, furious and despondent, because the lead he was following didn’t pan out.

_tell me a story_

Clint does. He tells the story of an assassin who used a sword but preferred a bow. He tells the story of how that assassin killed the wrong man not once, but twice, and how that still haunts the assassin to this day. He tells the story of an assassin who survives people trying to kill him over and over and over again. He tells the story of an assassin who shows up at a circus and kills the ringmaster for no apparent reason (although there is a reason). Clint tells the story of an assassin who was shot and then saved by a man in a suit.

_almost a higher kill count than me_

Something in Clint cracks at that, but another part of him sags in relief. He hates that part of himself.

~~~~~~

It’s a bad night for Clint, nearly a full two months later, when Clint’s soulmate reaches out.

_tell me a story_

Clint tells the story of a little spider with red hair and an archer who liked the colour purple. He tells the story of Budapest, and Krakow, and Madrid, and Berlin, and a dozen other places besides. He tells the story of an archer who finds a sister and a best friend and a mirror image of himself. He tells the story of a man with a bow finding a woman with a gun and saving her, just like a man in a suit did for him all those years ago.

 _i had someone like that once_ , Clint’s soulmate says, _i think he was my_ _~~friend~~ _ _brother_

Clint gets it.

~~~~~~

_tell me a story_

Clint tells the story of aliens and gods and monsters and nothing he was ever trained for. He tells the story of a hero who should be dead, and a man who just wants to be left alone, and a god who has lost more than anyone ever should, and a man whose sharp words hide his soft heart, and an archer who likes the colour purple, and a spider with red hair. He tells the story of blue light and cold hands and fuzzy brains and head pains. He tells the story of aliens appearing through a hole in the sky and a man in a suit of armour sacrificing himself so that the world may live on. He tells the story of how a chosen family is equally as valid as a blood family, sometimes even better, and he tells the story of how the younger brother and the assassin who preferred a bow but used a sword and the archer who likes the colour purple all found a home with their new family.

 _you’re like me_ , Clint’s soulmate says.

**yes**

_i’m sorry,_  Clint’s soulmate says.

 **me too** , Clint says, and he finds that he means it.

~~~~~~

It’s been nearly five months to the day since Clint’s soulmate first contacted him when Clint gets a call from Steve about the Soldier’s location.

“He’s in Romania,” Steve says when Clint answers.

“Hi Steve, how are you,” Clint says conversationally, “I’m great, thanks for asking.”

“How fast can you be there?” And Clint can tell that Steve’s not joking, and he’s just about ready to snap. So he tells Steve that he can be in Romania in seven hours, gets the address, hangs up, and calls Sam.

“You need to keep him here, Sam,” Clint says.

“Have you seen him? That’s like trying to stop a tank,” Sam says incredulously.

Clint pinches the bridge of his nose. “Top shelf of your kitchen. Cookie jar. Three teaspoons in his coffee, he’ll be out like a light and will stay that way for sixteen hours. Please, Sam,” and something in his voice must convince Sam that this is urgent and he is desperate because Sam agrees quickly after that.

Clint packs a bag and rents a car - he’s already in Belgrade, so it should be a simple drive. He spends the drive in silence, thoughts racing through his mind.

Should Clint let him know he’s coming? It would be nice not to get punched through a wall or thrown through a window upon arrival.

**how mad would you be if i said i was two hours away @16:34pm**

There’s no response for half an hour, and Clint is near jumping out of his skin.

_depends who else you’re bringing with you_

Clint lets out a sigh of relief and sticks the cap of the purple marker he always carries with him in his mouth, scribbling a response.

**just me**

_then you’re welcome to come anytime_

Clint grins, and he keeps grinning all the way up until he’s standing in front of the building that James Barnes has been staying in, duffel bag over his shoulder and squinting up at the sky. He picks the lock on the front gate and moves up the stairs, nerves making him jittery. He stands in front of apartment 5C.

_i can hear your heart beating from in here you know_

Clint smiles down at his arm fondly and raises it to knock. The door swings open and Clint’s eyes meet his soulmates for the first time. He feels like he just got punched in the chest and it’s the best thing he’s ever felt.

“Tell me a story,” James Barnes rasps, and Clint smiles.

“The story I want to tell hasn’t been written yet,” Clint says softly.

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow. “And which story is that?”

“Ours,” Clint says, grinning, and his soulmate grins back.


End file.
